Galileo

by Ann McMan

  He had to hand that one to her. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “So, it sounds like maybe one of you is cheating, and you feel like the vows you took are broken. Is that why you want to leave? Because you think you won’t ever get past the problem or find forgiveness? And that makes you believe a divorce is the only solution?”

  Tim gaped at her in amazement. In less than one minute, she had managed to summarize his entire crisis of faith with a single, stunningly simple analogy.

  “Yes,” he said, when he could find his voice. “That’s exactly what this is like.”

  “I get it,” she said.

  Tim waited, but Stevie didn’t say anything else for another minute or so.

  When she did speak again, her words surprised him. But they shouldn’t have. Everything he was learning about this kid was like waking up in a new world order.

  “I think I might be bi.”

  “Bi?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly.

  “Sexual,” she clarified. “I like girls. And guys,” she added. “Sort of . . .”

  Tim fought to keep the car between the lines on their lane.

  “Oh. Wow. I mean . . . that’s . . . okay . . .”

  Stevie actually laughed. “You’re so full of shit.”

  “Hey,” Tim said with umbrage. “Be fair. You did kind of spring that on me.”

  “Well? I thought that’s what we were doing. Telling each other secrets?”

  He considered her observation. It seemed reasonable enough. “I guess so.”

  “Do you think Mama Uno will freak out?”

  “About you being, um . . .”

  “Bi,” Stevie repeated. “It’s okay. You can say it.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just a nerd, okay.”

  “Duh. News flash.”

  Tim thought about her question. How would Evan react? He really had no idea. On the one hand, she’d have every reason to be understanding. On the other? Her knee-jerk response could easily be to blame herself because her kid grew up to walk a path similar to her own—one that was sure to be fraught with challenges. That unwelcome possibility remained, even though the cultural landscape today was so much more open than it had been when they were kids.

  “I don’t know what she’ll think,” he said. “What I do know is how much she loves you, and how much your happiness means to her.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought, too. It’s probably Dad who’ll freak out.”

  “You think so?”

  “Don’t you?” Stevie all but snorted. “He’ll lose his shit and blame Mom for making me queer.”

  Queer? Tim was confused. “I thought you said you were bi?”

  Stevie shrugged. “It’s kind of a moving target.”

  He wondered what that meant? It was clear that he had a lot to learn.

  “Are you going to tell her?” he asked.

  “You mean tonight?”

  “Well.” He considered. “If not tonight, then soon? Like over the holidays?”

  “Yeah. I thought so.” Her reply did not clarify her timetable. She bent toward him and socked him on the arm. “So, how about those Eagles? They ate your pansy-ass Crusaders for lunch.”

  Tim looked over at her. Were they really going to talk about basketball now?

  Stevie winked at him with confidence, and a trace of humor.

  Yeah, he thought. This was gonna be some night at the Chadds Ford chaparral . . .

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  It had been easier than expected to get Christensen to play ball—even though he’d had the temerity to string them along while he waited on a higher offer.

  Maya was entertained by the irony.

  It was always entertaining to discover how far righteous indignation would go when a big damn payoff was lurking nearby in the shadows. In the case of Brian Christensen, that distance proved not to be very far.

  After he’d agreed to Zucchetto’s terms, Maya paid a second visit to his dealership in Gloucester City. Brian made an elaborate pantomime out of demonstrating the improved refinements of the souped-up Camaro they sat in while they ironed out the particulars of their understanding.

  “The deposit has already been made to your bank account. It should post before 2 p.m. today.” Maya ran a hand over the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “All that remains now is for you to abide by the terms of our agreement.”

  “I won’t say anything,” he promised.

  “Oh, I’m confident you won’t. But just in case you should ever feel tempted to break your solemn pledge, you should know that my client has a very long reach—and an unforgiving nature.”

  Christensen looked wary. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a bright guy, Brian. I don’t think you need me to spell it out. Do you?”

  He began to fiddle with the sound system set into the faux-wood paneled dash. It was impressively equipped with a slew of brushed steel control knobs. “This has built-in Bluetooth and Sirius XM. You can toggle back and forth between those features and the navigation system just by turning this dial.”

  Maya honestly did not give a toss about the technological attributes of this overpriced GM street rod.

  “Impressive. Does that dial also have a setting that gauges how small the driver’s dick is?”

  Brian’s face turned red.

  “No?” She asked. “Pity. How about the depth of his discretion?”

  “Look,” Brian hissed with impatience. “I accepted your offer, okay? I took the money. You think this has been easy for me?”

  “Which part?” Maya asked with feigned innocence.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re cold. Any of it. What the hell did you think I meant?”

  “I honestly had no idea. You could’ve been ruminating on these pathetic attempts to interest me in test-driving this ridiculous vehicle.”

  His face was now a lovely shade of puce. “I was just trying not to attract attention.”

  “Well, then, having us sit inside a flaming-red muscle car would seem to be an ill-advised approach, wouldn’t it?”

  He drummed his fingers on the console between them. “Yes. I’ll keep my damn mouth shut. Okay? Now if we’re finished, you and your stuck-up opinions can get the fuck outta my showroom.”

  “My pleasure.” Maya reached for the door handle. “One last thing. This is for you.”

  Brian took the small card. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a phone number. Use it if anyone else approaches you about your extra-curricular activities with the sainted Bishop. And I do mean anyone.”

  “Why?” He smirked. “So you can have them erased or something?”

  God, this guy was a pissant.

  “Or something,” Maya repeated. “Just make the call, Brian. It’ll be in everyone’s best interest.”

  She climbed out and left the pathetic little weasel perched inside his macho ride.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “This looks gross.” Stevie had lifted the lid on a simmering pot of—something—and peered down at its contents with a wrinkled nose. “It stinks, too.”

  “Yeah.” Evan walked over to where she stood and took the lid from her. She dropped it back into place. “That’s because this isn’t dinner. I’m dyeing some socks. Dinner,” Evan pointed across the room, “is in the oven.”

  “Socks? For real?” Stevie looked incredulous. “Socks are cheap. Why would you dye them? Just buy new ones.”

  “For your information, Paris Hilton, some of us choose not to be profligate consumers.”

  Stevie crossed the kitchen and turned on the light inside the wall oven. “What’s in here?”

  “Moroccan pot roast.”

  “Seriously?” Stevie sounded impressed.

  “See?” Tim spoke up from the doorway. “I told you it might not be bad.”

  Julia laughed from her post at the counter. She’d been chopping dried cherries for the couscous. “You two really are cut from the same bolt of cloth.”

  Evan raised her
hands toward heaven. “Did I not already tell you that? They’re the reason my hair is falling out.”

  “Your hair is not falling out.” Julia handed her a glass. “Drink your wine, dear.”

  Stevie laughed and Julia winked at her.

  Evan narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing is going on except that I’m starving.” Tim began opening cabinets. “You got any nosh in this joint?”

  “Why? Did you run out of Doritos?” Evan walked over to the small kitchen table and picked up a stoneware platter covered with hunks of cut-up cheese and a couple bunches of grapes. “Here.” She handed it to Tim. “Don’t they feed you at that monastery?”

  “Just gruel, and the occasional glass of vinegar mixed with gall,” he said.

  “That figures.” Evan shooed him. “Take this into the living room. There’s a basket of cut-up pita bread already in there on the coffee table.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Tim took a bite of one of the cheeses. “What’s this? It’s great.”

  “Robusto,” Evan answered. “And the other one is truffled Gouda.”

  Tim tried a hunk of that one, too.

  “How are they?” Stevie asked.

  He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “They don’t suck.”

  “Okay,” Evan said. “Will you two get the hell outta here and let me get the rest of dinner going? At this rate, we won’t be eating until midnight. And put some music on,” she called after them. “And not that fusion bullshit, either.”

  After Tim and Stevie disappeared with the appetizers, Evan joined Julia at the counter.

  “Fusion?” Julia asked.

  “Tim likes alternative jazz.”

  “I don’t mind it if I’m dressed for it.”

  Evan bumped into her. “I prefer you undressed.”

  Julia gave her a skeptical look. “Do I know you?”

  “Not as well as you’re going to later on.”

  “Exactly how much wine have you had?”

  Evan laughed. “It’s not that. I’m just . . .”

  “Just?”

  Evan shrugged. “Happy.”

  Julia leaned into her. “Me, too.”

  Evan plucked a cherry from the pile Julia was chopping and popped it into her mouth. “Think we should tell her tonight?”

  “Tell her what?”

  “The pitfalls of withdrawing from the nuclear test ban treaty, of course. What did you think I meant?”

  “Boy, you don’t waste any time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Evan. She’s been home about twelve seconds.”

  “So?”

  “So. I think we could at least wait until after dinner.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Strains of hard-driving music blared out from the living room. Evan grimaced. Foo Fighters. Great. “Stevie!” she bellowed.

  “What?” Stevie yelled back.

  “Not that head-banger crap, either!”

  “Oh, come on, Mama Uno!”

  “Stevie . . .”

  The music abruptly changed. Evan listened to it for a moment before fixing Julia with a look of resignation.

  “What on earth is that?” Julia asked.

  “Unless I miss my guess, it’s Lawrence Welk.”

  Julia laughed. Evan started to holler something again, but Julia reached out and stopped her. “Don’t,” she said. “Trust me. Neither of them will be able to stomach this for more than ten seconds.”

  Evan wasn’t so sure. “You think so?”

  “I’d bet my last bottle of Geritol on it.”

  “God, I love you.” Evan bent forward to kiss Julia. “Did you really pack your Geritol?”

  “Why?” Julia asked. “Think you might be needing an energy boost later?”

  “Not thinking. Hoping.”

  Julia kissed her back. “I promise to hook you up.”

  As soon as she finished speaking, the music changed again. Mongolian throat singers this time.

  “See?” Julia beamed at her. “Told you.”

  “You think this is an improvement?”

  Julia tugged Evan closer. “Who cares?”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Part of Stevie’s mission during the time she was home for the holidays was to work on narrowing down the list of colleges she wanted to apply to, and which ones she planned to visit. So, after dinner, the four of them sat around the big farm table in the dining room, drinking wine and talking about possibilities. Evan even allowed Stevie to have a small glass of the Douro Tim had brought. The gesture appeared to be a significant concession on Evan’s part—one Stevie accepted happily and without comment.

  Julia found this simple exchange of give-and-take to be emblematic of the ways their mother/daughter social contract played out. At dinner, Stevie had humored Evan by eating two helpings of the savory Moroccan pot roast—without editorializing on what she consistently viewed as her mother’s penchant for extrinsic cuisine. So, it didn’t surprise Julia that when Tim opened the second bottle of wine he’d brought, Evan quietly got up to retrieve a fourth glass, and set it down in front of Stevie.

  Tim appeared to take all of this in stride, too. Although it was clear to Julia that he noticed the exchange. He winked at Evan as he filled Stevie’s glass.

  Across the table from Julia, Stevie lifted the wine to her nose and took a cautious sniff.

  “This smells . . .”

  They all waited.

  “Like oranges,” she said. She took a small sip and let it roll around on her tongue before swallowing. “Orange flowers. And maybe vegetables? It’s nice.” She took another small sip. “I like the kind of soft, fruity thing it has going on when you swallow it.”

  Tim stared at her with wide eyes. “Did you read the label in the car or something?”

  Stevie looked back at him with confusion. “No. I didn’t even know you brought this.”

  “Well, who knew?” He sat back in his chair. “Evan? It looks like your kid got the palate.”

  Evan laughed. “This surprises you because?”

  “It must come from the Cohen side of the family,” he teased.

  “I doubt that.” Evan took a healthy swallow from her own glass of wine. “Normally, I’m only too happy to cede responsibility for any aberrant tendencies to Dan’s DNA. But the Cohen clan’s appreciation for fine wines pretty much tops out at Manischewitz.”

  “Aberrant?” Stevie tossed an uneaten chunk of toasted pita bread at her mother.

  “Hey!” Evan promptly flung the bread projectile back at her. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, munchkin.”

  “Girls. Really?” Tim snagged the basket of ammo and moved it out of harm’s way before hostilities could escalate. “Don’t make me stop this car.” He faced Julia. “I apologize for their juvenile behavior. Now you see why our dining options are usually limited to places like Sonic Drive-In.”

  “No need to apologize to me.” Julia said to him. “I’ve been sitting here feeling smug because I thought I’d made a bold choice by not wearing my flak jacket tonight.”

  “Why?” Stevie observed. “I bet you’d look smokin’ hot in that, too.”

  The easy flow of conversation ground to a sudden halt. The report from Stevie’s offhand remark hung in the air like the aftermath of a cannon blast. Nobody said anything for the better part of ten seconds.

  Julia did her best to try and stifle the blush she knew was creeping up her neck.

  Tim became mesmerized by something fascinating on the table in front of him.

  Stevie closed her eyes in mortification.

  Finally, Evan cleared her throat, folded her arms, and leaned toward her daughter with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yeah. Okay.” Stevie faced her mother and held up her palm in a clear gesture of resignation. “So, I guess we’re going to have this conversation right now?”

  “You think?” Evan asked.

  “Honey . . .” Julia touche
d Evan’s forearm.

  “It’s okay, Julia,” Stevie interjected. “I’m sorry I said that. It was rude.”

  “No, Stevie,” Julia said. “You don’t need to apologize. I wouldn’t call it rude.”

  “Seriously?” Evan looked at her like she’d just morphed into an alien species. “I’d hardly call it polite conversation.”

  “Cool your jets, Mama Uno,” Stevie said. “I was going to tell you tonight, anyway.”

  “Tell me?” Evan asked. “Tell me what?”

  Stevie shrugged. “About Desiree and me.”

  “Desiree?” Evan sounded perplexed. “What about you and Desiree?”

  “We like each other.” Stevie said it like it was a foregone conclusion—which, in fact, it pretty much was.

  Evan still seemed confused. “This is news, how exactly?”

  Stevie shot Tim a look.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I can’t bail you out on this one . . . you brought it up.”

  “Hold it.” Evan raised a hand. “Would one of you two kindly fill me in on what all I missed in last week’s episode of This Is Us? I’m clearly out of the loop, here.”

  Stevie made a face. “For starters, Mom—nobody watches This Is Us. It sucks.”

  Evan allowed her exasperation to show. “Forgive my woeful ignorance of Nielsen ratings.”

  “Whatever,” Stevie continued. “So . . . remember when Des came up and stayed with me at Emma over fall break? Well . . . we kind of figured out that our friendship is maybe . . . more than friendship. You know?”

  Evan dropped back against her chair. She looked in turn at Stevie, Tim and Julia. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Are you pissed?” Stevie sounded genuinely worried.

  “Pissed? At you?” Evan was confused. “Why would I be pissed?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Stevie seemed to think about her question. “Okay. Maybe not pissed. Disappointed?”

  “No. Not that either.” Evan polished off her wine and thrust her glass at Tim. He took her cue and immediately poured her a generous refill.

  “Could I have some more, too?” Stevie asked him.

  “Yeah . . . I don’t think so.” Evan answered for him. “Stevie? Are you sure about this? You don’t have to be. It’s fine to take the time you need to figure these things out.”